


First Date

by TowerOfGents (orphan_account)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:37:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2063166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TowerOfGents
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was nervous as hell. He needed to make a good first impression. It was their first date after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Date

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY: Slurs, Verbal Abuse, or Violence (there is a small scene).

Grif featured his best tuxedo t-shirt – trust his mother's words, he had plenty of those things – and his fathers car that reeked of stale cigaret smoke and Jack Daniel’s whiskey. He had though about bringing flowers, but he didn't want to seem so sappy. (Alright, he didn't want to seem like an idiot if Simmons didn't like them.)

As the Hawaiian parked the olds mobile in the small driveway of his date's house, he felt himself start to sweat. He was nervous as hell. He needed to make a good first impression. It was their first date after all.

He managed to finally open the door of the car, and start to make his way to the door. Some how, he felt as if he was going in slow motion, from meeting the door and knocking lightly, trying to make his presence known.

As quickly as he seemed to knock, a cheery red-headed woman flung the door open, giving a white smile to the teenager standing at her door step.

“Oh, Dexter! Ah, it's so good to see you. Come in, come in! Richard is just about ready. You can go wait in the living room.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Simmons,” Grif quickly stepped into the home, and made his way to the old lady style living room. As he sat down slowly, he felt the stick and crinkle of plastic that covered all of the furniture. He made sure his back was as straight as it could be, and he even tried to suck in his gut a bit, before he heard footsteps making their way from the kitchen to the recliner seated a few feet from his own position.

A man that seemed to be a few inches taller than Simmons – making him about a foot taller than Grif – set himself down in the dark and dusty recliner, that didn't seem to be covered in the same plastic film as the other seats. He sipped at the beer stuck into his fingers, and kept eye contact with the already nervous teenager.

“So, you're the kid my faggot of a son his goin' out with, huh?” Grif stiffened up as the word slid of out the man's lips, as if nothing was wrong with saying it.

“Yes, I'm dating your son. Is there anything wrong with that, sir?”

The man just let out a scoff, and turned to the small night stand to pick up a pack of cigarets. Before lighting one, the man squinted at Grif, eying his body, the way his belly bulged out a bit, the way his hair hung dreadfully close to his eyes, the way he gripped at his arms when he was nervous or just about ready to punch someone. He quickly stopped and stared at the young man's arms.

“Are those...tattoos? How old are you, boy?”

“Sixteen, sir. Back in Hawaii is where I got most of them.”

The man shook his head, and slipped an unlit cigaret into his teeth. “Great, now I have two fags in my life, and both of them are total trash,” he spoke, before lighting the cigaret and letting out a large puff of smoke.

Grif was furious. This guy was Simmons' father figure? And his mother stands by just being the nice old wife only there to bring him beers and go buy him cigarets if his pack is empty?

Grif quickly stood up from his spot, his nails digging into his palms. “Alright, listen, asshole. This kid your talking about is your Goddamn son, the kid who looks up to you. Have you ever realized that because you never taught him to even remotely talk to a girl is why he likes dudes? Have you ever realized that he might be looking for dudes to replace the father figure he never had? Trust me, your kid has serious daddy issues.”

Simmons' father cracked the beer can with a strong grip. He shoved himself off from his spot on the recliner, and threw the can to the floor. “You fags are all the same. You all get mad when some old guy like me has some common sense when being around...you.”

“So, we're not even people now? We're just a 'you' now? Now listen here buddy, I can tell you the straight out truth. We all come out the same way, there's not really a difference between you and me.”

“You're calling YOU and ME equal?! Ha! Tough luck, faggot. We have nothing in common. First of all, I'm not a fucking dyke.”

Grif couldn't stand it anymore. That feeling when he's about to punch someone in the face stood above everything else – common sense, the police coming, anything. Before he even knew it, he was slugging his fist to the man's jaw. He felt bones crack, and saw the man's face go from staring straight at him to looking to the wall to down on the ground.

Grif didn't have a plan for this. He wasn't supposed to punch his date's dad in the face.

Before Simmons' mother could stop him, he went sprinting up the stairs, heading for what he hoped was Simmons' room. He flung the door open, and sure enough, there he was, just straightening his tie.

“Simmons, grab a bag of clothes and whatever you need. You're staying with me for a while, okay?” Grif tried his best to say without sounding like the overweight fat-ass he was, but his lungs didn't work fast enough.

“What? Why? I thought we were just going out for the night?”

“Look, I punched your dad in the face, we need to go quick or we're gonna be having our dates in jail.”

Simmons' eyes grew wide for a moment, but he clearly understood. He packed a quick bag with enough clothes to last him two weeks for so, and just a few nick-knacks to keep him sane in this whole situation.

“Alright, that it?” Grif rubbed at his arms once more – he was nervous.

“Yeah, yeah. We can go.”

They both quickly ran for the stairs and the door, leaving it hanging open as the high-tailed it for Grif's olds mobile.

Both of them quickly hopped in, and Grif peeled out of the driveway, Simmons gripping at the arm rests with white knuckles.

The drove for a bit in complete silence, not one of them saying a word. The mood died down after a bit, and Simmons quickly tried to make as much small talk as he could.

“Dude, this car smells like shit.”

“My dad's. I swear, it's my dad's.”


End file.
